Rewrite

It really was perfect….

“I told you—”

Her voice calls for you once again,

“You should’ve let me pack it yesterday.”

Jiheon continued on with her scolding, she started the moment she steps in your ransacked room—ransacked by yours truly. It was a scolding you're helpless with, that's because she is right; always is. Last-minute packing turned your closet upside down this morning, and now your floor looks like a battlefield of shell shocked shirts, fallen shorts, and rogue socks.

“I’m sorry, there’s still time left.” flashing her a sheepish smile hoping it would stop making her upset; well, pouting, still but you hope your smile had some effect. “It might look messy, but I’m almost done. Just a few more clothes left—and hey, now you get to choose what I wear for the whole trip. That’s a win, right?”

She rolls her eyes—at least the somewhat of it, there's the pout that she always wears in situations like this, that now she carries as she circles the room. It didn't proceed with silence though, there was some grumbling—mostly all, some being almost a yell, it was all reprimand of course; calls you out on a shirt you were about to fold, she did not even let pass the socks you just shove into the corner of your luggage.

She kept on going, you got the gist of it. Putting everyone else before yourself, you had a fault—she already told you multiple times. There was a lot more said—you swear you value her more than anything else, but you have trouble weighing her words when she looks like a bee buzzing at you. It was that visualisation that showed your smile, which she caught before you even realized—your full name got called quickly after.

“Why even volunteer for an extra shift the day before our trip?”

She picks up another pair of jeans and holds up before you–measured in her mind. If she approves, she folds them and tosses them to pack. If she doesn't, another fabric flings towards you. Still you catch the hurled yet soft fabric, which you quickly fold as her demand for neatness.

“I had to,” you line up your excuse. “I started inventory, it was wrong for me to just leave it mid-way and expect Gyuri to—” since childhood you never were the best at drawing straight lines.

You stopped yourself but a name was already said; another ‘she’ between you and her usually is just a slap on a wrist, but to evaluate it now: She told you to pack up a day before, She arrives at your dorm with everything scattered, now she's hearing the reason is because of a woman.

You haven't turned to her since you’ve last spoken. She hasn't either—not helping the dread of air you feel from her general direction. Silence was broken immediately though, after a pause and a half, it didn't last—part of you wished for a second more.

It was her voice and your name—Ice cream is how you would describe the tone; it's sweet yet her tone is cold enough to make you freeze.

You turn of course, you had to, already expecting the raging bee that is Jiheon. She’s there, hand raised, lotion bottle on her hand already aimed. “How about this,” you thread carefully, every word tickling the spring trap that is her arm. “When we get there, let's skip the rides. Let's walk around the beach till sunset.” No bottled thrown yet, so you continue, “Look, we can leave now. I'm done packing, with a few hours to spare.”

“did you pack sunscreen?”

“Of course! For ease of access, in this pocket it's right here… It's—its—” it's not there. Ah shit. You've accepted your going on this trip with a lotion bottle dent on your head.

But the bottle never came, instead you hear… giggling. Then laughter. You look up to find Jiheon clutching the sunscreen bottle, shaking with amusement. “Dummy,” she laughs, teasing you with it like it’s a trophy.

It was a prank. You’ve fallen for it. For her. Again.

“Come here!” you yell, lunging toward her as she squeals and scrambles away, still laughing. You chase her around the room, your luggage forgotten, your heart full.

A yelp echoes off the walls as you finally catch her, arms wrapping around her waist as the two of you tumble back—falling into the bed in a tangle of limbs and joy.

Laughter lingers like perfume in the air. Then, slowly, it fades. So do your movements.

On top of you now, her hands resting on your chest, breath warm against your neck.

You reach up, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"Sorry."

You look down — a quiet ask for why. "I didn't mean to be that mad," she clears up.

"No. I deserve that. And you weren't that mad, I know."

"I love you," she mutters.

Your hand stills in her hair. Then, softer than before, you keep going.

She inches up to meet your eyes. She has this smile she does — not her widest, but one of her softest. Lips bitten back by something playful, cheeks puffed with it. She glows a little every time. Her nose scrunches. She's waiting.

Usually you'd have already said it back. But her recent mischief earned this.

"You're not going to say it?"

"Do I have to?" You don't bother hiding it.

"I—"

"How am I supposed to know if it's real?"

The words shouldn't have stopped you. They're strangely worded, a little off — the kind of thing you could've let pass. But that last word. Real. It snagged on something and now you can't even find the first of the three.

"Well?"

"You have to pay a kiss first." The fastest thing you could find.

She laughs, bashful, and brings both hands up to cover your eyes. You let her. You feel her lean in.

You ready the words.

You wait.

Another second.

Another.